Autobiography · Poetry

Catalyst

Bud” © Thangaraj Kumaravel, 2012. CC BY 2.0.
It’s waiting for you.
On the back burner for so long
you’ve forgotten about it completely.

It’s sitting at the table in a restaurant.
Waiting patiently for you to leave that job
you don’t even like
and make it to dinner.

Late.

It’s underneath a stack of half-finished books
and another mostly empty journal.
Corners of the pages folded,
marking all those inspiring quotes
about places to go and things you’ll do
someday.

It’s somewhere in the back of your fridge.
Tucked between a jar of pickles
and boxes from that take-out place you don’t even like,
but walk by on your way home.

It’s another collection of sentences that start
with words like “when the time is right” and “someday” and “after I…”.

You can always find another reason
you can’t find the time
or do it right now.
You are never wanting for extended timelines.
Two-year plans that are pushed out to five, then ten.

An entire life condensed down to
all the things you said you’d do,
but didn’t.

Autobiography · Mental Health

Bend

Last lift” © Guy Lejeune, 2013. CC BY-ND 2.0.

Every time a new piece lands, we hold our breath. Wondering if that will be the one to break us. The metal warps, bends deep and creaks, but stays intact. Hanging on by metallic bonds. Strong and fragile all at once.

We take turns telling each other we can do this. Switch off which head leans into which shoulder, which face gets buried into the crook of which neck. All the while I’m repeating, “I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me…” in my head.

At the psychiatrist, I stare straight ahead. Talking out loud, but to no one. A doctor in a pencil skirt and heels sits just outside my peripheral vision. Our appointment runs twenty minutes over. When the talking stops she starts listing options. Hopeful. “I think we can figure something out here,” she says. Tells me how she’d like to coordinate with my doctor and my therapist. Get me on a prescription, get me into group therapy. I nod over and over again.

“I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me…”

Over the weekend Mase and I take a trip south. When we leave my parents’ house my mom says, “Finish your summer…” but can’t think of the right word to cap the sentence. I look over her shoulder and force another nod.

“Yeah. That’s it. Just finish it,” I say, taking a deep breath in. She hugs me again, I climb into our rental car, and Mason guides us out of the driveway.

Mental Health · Relationships

Fight

Thailand” © Nishanth Jois, 2014. CC BY 2.0.

When I got home from work last night I collapsed on the floor sobbing. Mason put down his computer and crawled over to me. Again. “I just can’t get myself together, baby. I don’t know what’s happening.”

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

In the middle of the night I woke up from a half-sleep and found myself curled up tight, still crying. In the morning, I sent my trainer a message to let him know I wasn’t going to make it in. “I just don’t have it in me today.”

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

After my doctor’s appointment I walked around the city. Tried to make my way up the hill to my office, but couldn’t get my brain to grab on to anything. Muttered under my breath, “You got this. Just stay upright. Just for today. Just stay.” Then shot off another message about not coming in.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Again and again, apologies flutter from my lips, my fingertips. Land on everyone like a dusting of snow. Of ash. Like I’m made up of nothing but let downs, crumbling. But I can’t give in to that belief.

So I started reaching out. Made (and kept) appointments with a medical doctor, a counselor, a psychiatrist. Asked to reduce my hours at work. Figured out how to start taking more long, cathartic walks with my best friend. Had Mason tell me the details of our ten year plan.

I’m building an army. Taking back the pen.